Page 101 of Problematic Summer Romance

“Baby, I get it. But we can’t justimporta dog.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re about to get married and go on a honeymoon.”

Rue scowls, and so do I. I lower myself to the floor, joining the pile she’s been forming with the dogs. Taking sides. “I would like to remind you,” I whisper in her ear, “that if at any point during this week you don’t get what you want, it is within your sacrosanct rights to go full-blown bridezilla.”

“Is it?”

“Absolutely. In fact, I think it would be fun.”

Her wide, serious eyes study me. Then her mouth twitches. “Who would that be fun for?”

“Me? But also for Bitty.”

“Bitty?”

I shrug. “Wouldn’t Bitty be the perfect name for Tiny’s companion?”

She leans forward, eye-level with the stray. Holds his gaze for a few moments, then asks: “Do you like it? Bitty?”

Bitty licks her cheek in the sloppiest of kisses, and when I look at Eli, I know what he’s seeing: someone who until two years ago used to be distrustful of pets, advocating to get a second dog.

My heartballoons. I don’t know what Eli’s does, but I’m willingto bet that it’s about ten times more grandiose than mine, because he says, “I guess I’ll figure out how to bring Bitty home.”

Rue takes his face in both hands and presses a too-intense kiss on his mouth.

“Don’t worry about your honeymoon, guys. I’ll take care of importing him. I have nowhere to go in the near future.”

“Right,” Eli says jokingly, lips against Rue’s cheek. “You’re only moving to California or Boston, finding a place to live, starting a new job, getting acclimated—”

“Yes, yes,” I reply, but I’m already wobbling outside to avoid listening, climbing the stairs with that mouthful of shame rising in my throat. It reminds me of a time when Eli would look at me and see only failure. Of being fourteen and a tangle of grief and anger and regret. It weighs like iron in my stomach, the terrible knowledge that I’m again careening toward disappointing him—

“What’s wrong, Maya?”

I’m on the landing, and Conor is in front of me. I blink, taken aback by his sudden presence. When I touch my cheek, my fingers stay dry. How does he know that something’s wrong?

“Nothing.”

He seems skeptical, but shows me the tube of lotion he’s carrying. “Come back to the living room, so we—”

“No. Here.”

“On the stairs?”

I nod. Sit on the closest step. Hold out my open palm. I don’t expect him to kneel in front of me and screw the cap off. I’m capable of reaching my own ankle, and the sting is going away on its own, anyway, but he squirts the gel on his palm first, warming it up for a few seconds. That’s why, when it makes contact with theskin of my calf, the feel of it is soothing. His touch is gentle and economical, purposeful but also lingering. Palms rough, anchoring.

The weight in my stomach doesn’t lift, but it morphs. Simmers to something else. Equally heavy, but not as unpleasant.

“Conor?”

He looks up at me. One of his hands rests around my calf. The other cups the arch of my foot. Closes on my heel.

“Can I ask you something?”

He doesn’t say yes, but his thumb swipes over my anklebone.

“You know how you and Eli almost got your STEM PhDs? And then you were asked to leave your programs. And it somehow became the catalyst for the rest of your lives—”

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